Whack A Mole

“What did you say?” he asks.

I shake my head sideways, hold up my hands, and mime a quick and silent Nothing.

“No. Earlier.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You mentioned how you felt. You inadvertently echoed a phrase Mullen used in his communiqué.”

“Hell hole,” says Gus. “They both said ‘hell hole.’”

“Yeah,” I say. “I feel like I jammed us up-put us in so deep we can't crawl out, in a hell hole.”

Ceepak is starting to look more like himself.

“When you two were discussing fishing spots, Mullen advised you to stay clear of the Hell Hole.”

Gus nods. “Sure. But he didn't need to bother. Everybody knows it's the worst freaking fishing spot there is. Can't catch nothin’ out there but a good nap.”

“Where's this dead spot, Gus? If it's a location the local boats know to avoid….”

Gus gets it. “Then it's the perfect spot for Pete to drop anchor with the girls! No one would drift by to bother him.”

“Precisely.”

“Scoot over, Danny.”

I slide sideways, keep both hands clasped on the wheel, keep us heading due east.

Gus hovers over the control panel and starts plunking keys on the GPS monitor. The green screen flashes. The nautical charts change like a quick-flipping slide show.

“I got it stored in the memory here. Patch of most unproductive water in the whole freaking Atlantic … maybe it's the spot where they dump the medical waste … you know … the hypodermics that wash up on the beach … maybe the fish faint when they see needles … my wife does….”

The chart frame he's searching for finally fills the screen. Gus taps the center with his finger.

“We're in luck, boys. Just need to backtrack a little on a bearing south-by-southwest. Lay in a course, Danny.”

I guess I should say “Aye, Captain,” like Scotty on Star Trek, but I don't. I just twist and tug the wheel, work the throttles, check the compass, and line us up for a quick run down to Hell.

We're plowing through breakers. The Lady Fran is doing the Coast Guard one better. She's clipping along at thirty-six knots, plowing up ridges of water in her wake. I wonder what kind of suped-up engines Gus has rigged up under the decking. Somewhere, I suspect, there's a Maserati missing a motor.

“That's gotta be him,” Gus says. He's staring at the sweeping circle on the long-range radar screen. A blinking blip is sitting smack dab in the middle of the superimposed chart displaying the Hell Hole. “Radar signature appears to be the right size. We should have visual contact in another five or ten minutes. Hang on. I'll be right back.”

Gus scampers over to the ladder and scurries down. The man is spry. He works the railings and rungs like a scrappy rhesus monkey.

Ceepak moves around the control console, hanging on to the rails that pen us in as we slice through the crests tossed up by the tide. He wants to be up front so he can be the first to see Mullen's boat.

Fran is really rocking now. We keep smacking across rollers, the next best thing to a hydroplane.

“Ceepak!”

It's Gus, scaling back up the ladder, lugging a chunky pair of binoculars. Ceepak braces the handrails and works his way back.

“What've you got?”

“Night-vision capability.” Gus tosses the binoculars to Ceepak. “Couple years back I helped some DEA boys bust up this drug-smuggling ring coming up the coast from Florida. The guys gave me these as a thank you. I use them to watch birds. At night. Their body heat makes the infrared lenses go crazy.”

Ceepak nods. Presses the binoculars to his eyes. Scans the horizon.

“See anything?” I ask.

“Negative.”

Gus leans in to check the arcing circle on the long-range radar. “He's still too far out for visual. But we're gaining on him, boys. He's definitely dropped anchor. Set up shop for the night. Hasn't moved since we first pinged him.”

Ceepak lowers the field glasses, drapes their strap around his neck to free up his hands. He retrieves his little notebook from his front shirt pocket. Flips through a few pages. Reads something.

“Gus,” he asks, “do you have a fire extinguisher on board?”

“Yeah. A couple. Down in the cabin.”

“We might need them.”

“What's up?” I ask.

“I've been contemplating something else Mullen said. About his mission. How he never completely fulfilled the Lord's Commandments.”

“What?” I say. “Chopping off their ears and noses wasn't enough?”

“Not if he was attempting to follow a strict and literal interpretation of the Scripture's edict.” Ceepak reads from his notebook: “Ezekiel. Chapter twenty-three. Verse twenty-five. ‘And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and thy remnant shall fall by the sword: they shall take thy sons and thy daughters; and thy residue shall be devoured by the fire.’”

Gus groans. “Jesus. You think he's gonna go after her son, too? T. J.?”

“Doubtful,” says Ceepak. “His narcissistic fantasy is completely focused on females. I suspect, however, he intends to follow through on the final command. To do what he never did before because it would have denied him his trophies, his skulls and fleshy souvenirs.”

“He's going to burn her body?” I say.

Ceepak nods. “We should assume that is his plan.”

“Jesus. A fire? He'll sink his own freaking boat!” says Gus.

“I believe this man in all his delusions would consider such a lethal conflagration to be a glorious conclusion to what he perceives as his lifelong mission.”

“Freaking nut job,” Gus mutters. “Freaking, fucking nut.”

A flash of green on the radar screen catches the corner of my eye.

“Guys?” I say. “We're here.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

He's showing up on the short-range,” I say. “We just pinged him. Bearing seventy-five relative to current course. Range two-point-two nautical miles.”

Like a gunner in a tank turret, Ceepak swivels with his field glasses to look where I just told him to look.

Something stings his eyes. He momentarily lowers the binoculars. Blinks to clear his vision.

“Infrared flare,” he says.

“Disco birds?” Gus asks. That's what fishermen call the annoying gulls that swoop into the halogen lights off the back of any night-fishing boat while you're cleaning your catch.

“Negative,” says Ceepak. He puts the glasses back to his eyes, braced this time for the hot spots. “A burning cross. Two.”

Gus peers off toward the horizon. “Like the goddamn Ku Klux Klan?”

Ceepak nods. “Mullen has affixed flaming crossbeams to both outrigger poles-port and starboard. They must